


Not Averse to You Specifically

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Insecure Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Senses, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:24:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: It's been so long since Mycroft has had skin to skin contact with anyone. The encounter with Greg in the filthy alleyway is a shock to say the least, and he needs a little space to compose himself.





	Not Averse to You Specifically

It had been a long time since anyone had touched Mycroft in anything other than a strictly professional capacity. Even then, his medical and dental staff wore latex gloves. He did not indulge in massage, remedial or otherwise; he shaved and cut his own hair. He was careful to offer items to people by placing them on a surface, rather than handing them directly. He wore gloves whenever possible.

And now sitting here in this dark alleyway, a rough hand over his mouth warning him to stay quiet, the touch was affecting him more than he could have imagined. His mind was cataloguing all the data it could – the roughness of callused skin, though it was warm and a little sweaty; the smell of tobacco, coffee and the refuse in the alleyway; the harsh breathing in his ear. Despite his shock, his brain had identified the scent as Greg Lestrade. The fingers were firm against his face but not hard. The hand had been placed carefully so as not to prevent him breathing, and Mycroft had little doubt it had practical experience in this task. Mycroft’s breathing was measured as usual but he knew that his puffs of warm breath would be felt on the fingers across his lip. His heart was pounding against his ribs, and he wondered if the rhythm was discernible to the body pressed against his as they sheltered behind the skip.   

“Don’t move.” The voice whispered in his ear, warm air eddying across his skin. It was an unnecessary statement, if ever there was one, though Mycroft wouldn’t have said so for the world. The shiver that flew around his body was generated from the feel of that sound across his skin, and it was delicious. Mycroft struggled to bring his attention back to the present, where the very real, very armed man was waiting on the other side of the skip, hoping to get past them and to freedom. Unfortunately for him, a number of police stood in the way, including the one currently pressed up against Mycroft, warning his silence.

In a flurry of action, the man behind Mycroft barked an order, pushing him back even harder against the wall as officers stormed the alleyway. Through the layers of fabric, Mycroft felt a strong body urging him against the wall, pressing into him. The breath was shot from his lungs through the fingers which pulled away from his mouth now that the suspect was subdued. Mycroft gasped, sucking air into his lungs. The wall was rough against his hands as he pushed against it, the space behind him cooler now that the body attached to the hand was gone. Mycroft missed the weight, he found. And the breath, and the closeness of another person, he admitted in a secluded part of his mind.

“Mycroft?” Lestrade’s voice came again, still quieter than usual, even with the din of the protesting suspect. Mycroft turned to look into the chocolate eyes that were searching his for an answer.

“I’m fine…” he said, brushing down his suit automatically. His hand was shaking, he saw absently, and in fact there were several of them. Mycroft blinked, the world slipping in and out of focus as he swayed. “Actually, I may need…” he started, but his voice was far away and very quiet. Strong hands grabbed his elbows, helping him down to the ground and pushing on the back of his neck, lowering his head between bent knees. Air was suddenly difficult to find, and he was gasping, having to pull hard to fill his lungs. As the blood rushed to his head, Mycroft’s world stabilised, and he felt an accompanying rush of mortification. Had he nearly fainted? All because some crazy man accosted him in an alleyway. Well, less crazy and more specifically obsessed with him, Mycroft’s meticulous brain amended, but still. Hardly a reason for such theatrics.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the sounds swirled around him, shouts and oaths from all directions. He heard the same voice swear, the hand at the back of his neck shift then rise.

“Shit, I’ve gotta…look, I’ll be back in a second, okay?” Lestrade must have bent down, his voice much closer. Mycroft nodded automatically, looking up slowly to see Lestrade striding down the alleyway. Without thinking, Mycroft stood up, wobbling a little, leaning against the wall for support as his vision cleared. When he judged that it was unlikely he would pass out, he slipped along to the end of the alley and up the street, calling a car to collect him as he did so. Two corners later the black car caught up with him, and he sank into the back seat with relief.

“Home, please.” He told the driver, who made no indication he’d noticed there was anything different about Mycroft. The smell must be horrendous, he thought, already lamenting the loss of his jacket and suit. He had definitely knelt in something unsavoury, for it had soaked through the knee of his suit, and he doubted the fine wool could be salvaged. It was worth sending to the cleaners but he held out little hope. As such he stripped as soon as he arrived home, leaving all his clothes in a pile by the front door; walking through his flat nude was a very odd feeling. Mycroft clutched his cufflinks, tie bar and watch in one hand, depositing them in their correct places in his wardrobe before heading for the bathroom. Once clean, he felt far calmer. Once dressed in a clean suit he was almost back to normal.

Putting the whole incident out of his mind, Mycroft made his way to the kitchen. A pot of tea would complete his evening, then he could get down to some real work. Out of habit, he found his mobile, thankfully not requiring replacement, and checked his messages while he waited for the water to boil. One eyebrow flicked up at the four messages and two missed calls. Mycroft set the tea to steep as he listened and read; all were from Detective Inspector Lestrade, professing increasing levels of concern for his wellbeing. Considering his options, Mycroft wondered what would be the appropriate response. Given his desire to forget the whole thing as soon as possible, he replied immediately with a text message of reassurance, certain the matter would be over.

Almost instantly, his phone rang.

Lestrade.

“Can I help you, Detective Inspector?”

“Mycroft? Where the hell did you disappear to?”

“You sound irritated, for which I apologise. I had pressing business,” Mycroft replied, removing the infuser from his teapot.

“Yeah, well, I have questions,” Greg told him.

Before Mycroft could consider the wisdom of his words, he was offering, “A car will collect you in ten minutes. Can I assume you are still at the crime scene?”

“Wha…fine. Yes I am.” Greg acquiesced. Mycroft called his driver, giving directions before sitting down with a cup of tea, wondering why he had done that. The part of his brain still stubbornly holding on to this afternoon’s events hinted that he might be hoping for another touch from the attractive DI – the only person he could even consider touching him, bare skin to bare skin, in any capacity. Mycroft ignored it, focusing instead on preparing a tray for them. It was too early for a meal, so he set out a late afternoon tea, grateful as always for the stocked fridge and pantry.

When Greg arrived his annoyance was mollified when he spotted the tea tray; Mycroft poured without comment, allowing Greg to doctor his own to his taste. Mycroft poured himself another cup and they sat in silence for a moment before Greg spoke. It was not what Mycroft had expected.

“Are you okay?” The DI blurted. “Only you left pretty quickly, and before that you seemed quite shaken.”

“Perfectly fine, thank you.” Mycroft replied.

“Those guys were trying to kill you.” Greg said, as though it hadn’t occurred to Mycroft that was their purpose.

“Yes, I am aware of that fact.” Mycroft said evenly. “It has happened before and I dare say will happen again.”

Greg stared, and the odd atmosphere made Mycroft suddenly nervous. Surely this police officer would not see through his carefully polite conversation?

“If that’s true, and you’re not particularly bothered by the homicidal thugs,” Greg said slowly, “what was it that made you react that way, then?”

Mycroft’s heart sank with every syllable. He was far more astute than Mycroft had given him credit for; this could be a difficult discussion. He cleared his throat. “Nothing. As I said, I am fine.”

“Now you might be,” Greg retorted, “but earlier, you were this far from passing out against that revolting skip.”

There was no arguing with him, Mycroft could see. Better to allow a level of truth, easing the suspicions before the whole mess became apparent.

“To be honest, Detective Inspector, it has been a long time since I was…manhandled in such a manner.” Mycroft admitted, the truth of the statement lending his face some colour. He looked down, a classic sign of embarrassment that was not entirely falsified. After a beat, he allowed his eyes to glance up, judging Greg’s reaction. To his chagrin, there was a calculating look on the handsome face.

“The only people who start sentences with ‘to be honest’,” Greg told him flatly, “are liars.” He tilted his head, looking more intently at Mycroft than anyone had in years. “What are you hiding, Mycroft?”

“Many things,” Mycroft found himself replying, “most of which you will never learn.”

“Really.” Greg replied, and there was an interesting new tone to his voice. He leaned back, lounging against the sofa cushions in a decidedly unprofessional manner.

Mycroft frowned. What had changed? It sounded as though Greg thought….but no.

“If it’s only most, then there must be some secrets you’re willing to let go.” Greg said, and the light in his eyes was now definitely different. This was the interest on a personal level, Mycroft knew – he was no longer talking to Detective Inspector Lestrade, but Greg, the very single, very attractive man in whom Mycroft had been harbouring an interest for a long, long time. Before he could stop himself, Mycroft swallowed.

Of course Greg noticed.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Greg continued, and Mycroft’s eyes widened a little before he pulled himself into line.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft said primly, hoping to regain some lost ground.

“I’ll go first then,” Greg said, ignoring Mycroft’s response. He cleared his throat, eyes roving over Mycroft’s face now, his interest more blatant. The more obvious he was, the more difficult it was for Mycroft to hide the physiological responses of his body – breathing harder, blushing, pupils dilated. He was fiddling with his tea cup (put it down, lace fingers together), shifting in his seat (sit _still!)_ , licking his lips (stop it!).

“I have a crush on someone I work with,” Greg said. “Well, not really work with. He’s not a copper.” At the use of the male pronoun, Mycroft felt his breath hitch. Confirmation then that Greg fancied men. He had been told, of course, but the admission from the man himself was another thing.

Greg was smiling now at Mycroft’s reaction. “What about you?” Greg asked, “Fancy anyone at the moment?”

Despite himself, Mycroft nodded. His lips pursed together and the heat in his cheeks increased at the admission.

“Okay.” Greg smiled. “Well this fella I’ve got a bit of a thing for, I don’t even know if he goes for men. He might be married for all I know.”

Mycroft nodded to show he was listening. There wasn’t a question in there and he wasn’t certain how to join this conversation without making a fool of himself.

“Are you married, Mycroft?” Greg asked, as though it was the logical progression of their conversation.

“Never.” Mycroft replied.

“You wear a ring, though,” Greg asked, and Mycroft spun it on his finger automatically.

“My grandfather’s,” Mycroft murmured, and it was Greg’s turn to nod in understanding.

“Me either, as of recently,” Greg offered. “She’s gone for good.”

“My condolences,” Mycroft said. Was that the right thing to say in such a situation?

“Oh, no need. Now she can sleep with whomever she wants and I don’t have to know about it. Besides,” Greg’s grin morphed into more of a smirk now, “I might be getting somewhere with this man I’m interested in.”

“Ah,” Mycroft managed, his throat tightening up.

“Have you thought about making a move on this person you’re interested in?” Greg asked carefully. Mycroft stared at him, finally recognising what was going on. Detective Insp-oh, for God’s sake, _Greg_ , he knew. He could read Mycroft like a book, and he was guiding this conversation, hoping to coax Mycroft out of his shell. Shame and embarrassment flooded Mycroft, and he knew he was still staring at Greg without answering.

“No,” Mycroft answered abruptly. He saw disappointment flash across Greg’s face, and hastened to add, “I haven’t thought about, er, making a move. I…it has been a long time since I have been in such a position.” The relief that crossed Greg’s face made Mycroft wonder how he could have missed this, in all the time he had spent covertly studying him. Boldly, he made a comment without a prompt from Greg, heart thumping hard against his ribs. “I am not sure he would reciprocate.”

“Well you don’t, do you?” Greg replied, carefully setting his cup in its saucer on the side table. He rubbed his palms nervously down his thighs. “That’s the hard part.”

“Indeed it is,” Mycroft replied. He knew he would never have the confidence to make the first move, even if Greg was wearing a ‘kiss me Mycroft’ shirt. The atheist in him protested at his silent prayer for Greg to either continue their conversation or make the first move.

“What would you…hypothetically,” Greg started, and Mycroft gulped at this, “how would you…what would you do, if you wanted to show someone you were interested in them?”

Mycroft blinked rapidly. His eyes wanted to meet Greg’s, but he didn’t dare. Taking a deep breath he said hesitantly, “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps the direct approach, then.” Greg said, and it was only the touch of recklessness in his eyes that warned Mycroft what was about to happen. Greg stood up, Mycroft following as good manners dictated. He did not expect Greg to close the distance between them in two steps and slide his hands around Mycroft’s jaw, cupping his face as his lips settled over Mycroft’s. Without thinking, Mycroft shoved him away, hard; he was breathing hard again, eyes wide, startled by his own reaction. Had he missed something, some cue that Greg was going to do that? The touch was overwhelming, intimate, determined, possessive, gentle. Too many things at once. Before he could analyse it, Greg was standing, grabbing his coat and muttering an apology with the same look of shame and mortified regret Mycroft knew he had worn earlier.

“Wait!” Mycroft said, reaching a hand out. “Please, Greg…”

Greg stopped, though he stayed several paces away as he turned. Eyebrows rose as if to ask what Mycroft could want. Mycroft realised he had called him by his name for the first time.

“I haven’t been touched…I don’t touch people.” Mycroft blurted, ashamed at the admission but desperate for Greg not to misunderstand him. “Never. I wear gloves, cut my own hair, shave myself…I have never been comfortable with skin to skin contact.”

Greg looked at him, his jacket half on. Slowly, he shrugged out of it, sitting down once more in his seat beside Mycroft. “And I put my hand over your mouth in the alley,” he said.

“And your hand on the back of my neck,” Mycroft added, “afterwards.”

“No wonder you left.” Greg said, half to himself. “That must have been a shock.”

This was the moment. “The most unexpected aspect was not the contact. I liked it. I wanted…want…it again.” Mycroft said. Good grief, today was a day for baring one’s soul, he thought, gritting his teeth as another wave of mortification came over him.

“In general,” Greg asked carefully, “or with me specifically?”

“The latter.” Mycroft replied immediately. “But…I did not expect you to…do that. I apologise for my reaction. I trust I did not hurt you?”

“No,” Greg answered. He seemed to realise something, because he said again, “No. I didn’t give you any warning, I just…figured from our conversation we both knew we were talking about each other, why keep dancing around it. I’m sorry, Mycroft. I should have asked.”

“I wouldn’t be averse to it happening again,” Mycroft told Greg. “I am unused to touch, but I would like to…”

“Slowly, then.” Greg suggested, and Mycroft nodded. Greg slid closer on the sofa, careful to leave some space between their bodies. With exaggerated movements, he stretched one hand out to settle over Mycroft’s where it sat on his knee. The fingers were rough, Mycroft noted, though the weight and warmth were not unpleasant.

“Alright?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft replied. He did not feel quite normal, but none of this day had been so.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Greg asked quietly, “I would very much like to kiss you again. Not with the hands, just…” he made a gesture between the two of them. Mycroft felt a flutter in his chest as he nodded, eyes darting to Greg’s mouth and back. He watched as Greg leaned forward and found himself doing the same until they met in the middle, barest brush of lips against each other. Greg was holding still, Mycroft could feel, offering but not taking. The consideration and restraint was comforting, giving Mycroft the confidence to press more firmly, a lingering touch, leaving the edges of his lips tingling. After a moment he pulled away, surprised to realise his eyes had closed.

“That was…” Greg trailed off, though the gentle smile on his face made the rest of the sentence redundant anyway.

“…Lovely.” Mycroft finished for him. Greg’s hand was still covering his, and it was fine. Better than fine.


End file.
